DAYS 
R6M6MB6R 


MARIA 
DOUGI 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Days 


Remember 


DAYS    WE 
REMEMBER 

Poems  by 

MARIAN    DOUGLAS 

Author  of  "In  the  Poverty  Tear"  "Peter  and  Polly"  etc. 


Boston:    Richard   G.   Badger 

The  Gorham  Press:   1903 


Copyright,     1902,  by 

Richard      G.     Badger, 


All  Rights  Res-erved. 


Printed  at  The  Gorham  Press:  Boston 


P5 
3535 


CONTENTS 

The  Flower  of  Time       .         .         .         .         .11 

A  New  Year's  Wish 12 

St.  Valentine 13 

A  Valentine         .         .         .         .         .  14 

An  Old  Valentine  .         .         .         .         .         -15 
Dick's  Valentine          .         .         .         .         .          16 

Washington's  Birthday 17 

The  Coming  of  Lent 18 

Good  Friday  .         .         .         .         .         .         -19 

Easter         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         21 

The  King's  Lilies  .         .         .         .         .         .22 

Easter  Morning.         .....          23 

Meg's  Easter  Egg 24 

April  Fools 26 

Patriot's  Day 27 

Arbor  Day  ......         29 

Decoration  Day     ......     29 

A  Soldier's  Grave 30 

A  Soldier's  Wreath 31 

The  Veteran 32 

Our  Dead       .......     33 

The  Comrade's  Grave         ....         34 

More  than  Thirty  Years  Ago         .         .         -35 
May  Day    .......         36 


Waking 

My  Childhood's  Sunday 

A  Birthday  Morn  . 

A  Birthday 

A  June  Wedding    . 

The  Fourth 

The  Fire  Cracker  . 

The  Summer  Outing  . 

Old  Home  Week     . 

Labor  Day 

Fair  Day 

Election      .... 

Thanksgiving 

Thanksgiving 

A  Good  Thanksgiving    . 

The  Angel's  Song 

Christmas 

A  Christmas  Carol.     . 

The  Old  Year  and  the  New 


37 
38 
40 

41 
42 
43 
43 

44 

45 
46 
48 
5° 
51 
5* 
53 
55 
57 

59 
60 


Days  We  Remember 


THE  FLOWER  OF  TIME 

O  glad  new  year,  a  rose  new-blown, 

That  not  one  sullying  touch  has  known! 

Time's  snow-white  blossom,  can  it  be 

The  common  fate  is  waiting  thee? 

Must  thou,  like  all  the  vanished  years, 

Be  tossed  with  winds  and  drenched  with  tears, 

As  one  by  one  thy  white  leaves  fall, 

To  lie  in  dust?     Oh!  is  this  all? 

Nay,  something  must  endure.     I  will 

The  fragrance  from  those  leaves  distil, 

And,  ere  it  has  forever  flown, 

Thy  heavenly  sweetness  make  my  own. 


ii 


Days  We  Remember 


A  NEW-YEAR'S  WISH 

"Happy  New- Year!"  say  you; 

"Happy  New-Year!"  say  I; 
And  each  one  tries  to  smile, 

But  both  of  us  we  sigh, 
For  oh!  each  year,  we  less  and  less 
Have  faith  in  dreams  of  happiness. 

We  hear  a  haunting  sob 

The  notes  of  joy  between; 
Our  first  thought  is  of  graves 

When  spring-time's  sod  grows  green. 
"Happy  New- Year!"     For  us  to  say 
Those  words  seems  mockery  to-day. 

Nay!  nay!  what  beauty  has 

The  rose  seed  in  the  dust? 
But  fair  will  be  its  bloom; 

Wait,  wait  in  patient  trust. 
The  meaning  of  our  days 

Hereafter  we  shall  see. 
"Happy  New-Year!"     Fear  not; 

God's  love  guards  you  and  me! 


12 


Days  We  Remember 


ST.  VALENTINE 

Upon  the  roof  the  white  doves  now 
Are  cooing,  cooing,  cooing; 

The  south  wind  shakes  the  willow  bough- 
It  is  the  time  for  wooing. 

But  flutter,  flutter,  goes  my  heart. 
How  can  I  make  my  plea? 

Oh,  would  the  maid  I  love  were  mine, 
Or  would  that  I  were  free! 

St.  Valentine,  St.  Valentine, 
Have  pity  upon  me! 

For,  proud  as  fair,  she  will  despise 

A  faint  heart's  timid  suing; 
And  should  I  fail  her  beaming  eyes 

Will  be  my  life's  undoing. 
Then  let  me  like  a  hero  seem, 

Though  I  a  coward  be, 
And  like  a  royal  suitor  go, 

For  Love's  own  queen  is  she. 
St.  Valentine,  St.  Valentine, 

Oh,  plead  my  cause  for  me! 


Days  We  Remember 


A  VALENTINE 

Though  this  letter  in  its  folds 
Nothing  but  one  rose-bud  holds, 
Not  a  single  word  or  sign, 
Still  it  is  my  valentine. 
Can  the  maid  to  whom  it  goes 
Read  the  message  of  my  rose? 
Golden  heart  and  blush  like  morn, 
Breath  of  balm  and  cruel  thorn? 
If  the  maiden's  heart  is  free, 
Mute  for  her  the  flower  will  be; 
Eut  if  some  sweet,  tender  thought 
On  her  life  its  spell  has  wrought, 
Love  knows  Love's  unwritten  sign- 
She  can  read  my  valentine. 


Days  We  Remember 


AN  OLD  VALENTINE 

A  little  square  of  fragile  lace; 

A  silver  Cupid,  with  his  dart 

Transfixing  a  gilt  paper  heart; 

A  foolish  rhyme — "Fair  maiden  mine, 

Smile,  smile  on  me,  thy  Valentine!" 

Yet,  oh,  how  sweet  the  flimsy  thing, 

With  fragrance  of  life's  early  spring! 

My  heart  beat  proudly  when  it  came; 

My  cheeks  were  lit  with  rosy  flame. 

J-Je  must  have  sent  it,  who,  to    me, 

A  new  Adonis  seemed  to  be. 

A  sharp  old  man,  with  wrinkled  brow, 

He's  little  like  Adonis  now; 

And,  I  to-day,  should  scarcely  know 

My  dreamy  self  of  long  ago; — 

Yet  this  small  missive,  in  its  folds, 

A  fragrance  as  of  violets  holds, 

From  that  fair  spring-time  that  was  mine 

When  I  received  this  valentine! 


Days  We  Remember 


DICK'S  VALENTINE 

I  bought  a  ten-cent  Valentine; 

You  can't  find  many  such — 

It's  three  times  prettier  than  those 

That  cost  three  times  as  much; 
The  very  handsomest  of  things: 
A  picture  of  a  boy  with  wings, 
Who  holds,  all  drawn,  a  silver  bow; 
One  breath,  and  whiz  the  arrow'll  go! 
It  is  so  nice  there's  no  one  who 
Seems  good  enough  to  send  it  to; 
I'll  put  it  up  above  my  shelf, 
And  keep  my  Valentine  myself! 


16 


Days  We  Remember 


WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY 

Thy  coffin  holds  but  dust;  a  hundred  years 

The  silent  tomb  has  closed  it  round,  but  Thou 

Art  of  today,  and  speaking  to  us  now, 

Like  a  grave  father  counseling  his  child; 

"Be  just  to  all;  be  wise;  be  vigilant, 

Not  led  by  party  and  not  lured  by  praise; 

Pay  every  debt;  keep  sacred  every  pledge; 

Bid  Plenty  save  for  Need;  give  Knowledge  sway; 

And  trust  through  all  the  Power  that  rules  above;" 

Plain,  simple  words,  repeated  from  the  time 

When  a  young  Nation  listened  to  thy  voice 

And  held  its  counsels  sacred.     If,  today, 

We  will  not  hear  them,  then  our  strength  is  lost, 

And  all  the  glory  of  our  past  will  be 

The  splendid  scabbard  of  a  broken  sword! 


Days  We  Remember 


THE  COMING  OF  LENT 

The  one  cloud  in  a  sunny  sky, 

When  others  smile  I  would  not  sigh. 

Low  whispering,  "It  is  not  for  me," 

I  welcome  in  the  Christmas  glee, 

And  try  to  laugh,  and  seek  to  jest, 

And  be  as  merry  as  the  rest. 

But  I  am  glad  when  it  is  o'er, 

And  I  can  be  myself  once  more. 

Too  used  am  I  to  shadowy  ways, 

Undazzled  on  the  light  to  gaze; 

Life's  music  has  been  hushed  so  long 

That  silence  sweeter  seems  than  song; 

And  dearer  far  than  festal  hours, 

Than  Christmas  chimes,  or  Easter  flowers, 

That  blessed  time  to  sad  lives  sent, 

The  penitential  days  of  Lent! 

Then,  undisturbed,  the  wounded  heart 

May  with  its  sorrow  sit  apart, 

Till  holy  thought  and  earnest  prayer 

Shall  give  it  strength  its  load  to  bear; 

Then  Grief  beneath  the  sheltering  cross 

May  find  the  treasure  hid  in  loss, 

And  contrite  tears  wash  white  at  last 

The  sullied  pages  of  the  past: 

A  rest  to  weary  spirits  sent, 

The  sad,  sweet,  blessed  days  of  Lent! 


iS 


Days  We  Remember 


GOOD  FRIDAY 

A  soldier,  in  the  narrow  shade 

A  tall  cross  rising  near  him  made, 

Sat  keeping  guard  until  should  die 

The  men  he'd  helped  to  crucify; 

Two  thieves,  their  crimes  well  proved,  and  One, 

The  Jew,  who  called  himself  the  Son 

Of  the  Jews'  God — it  mattered  not — 

And  for  his  pangs  why  should  he  care? 

'Twas  his  good  chance  the  man  should  die, 

For,  by  the  fortune  of  the  lot, 

The  seamless  robe  he  used  to  wear, 

As  a  king's  garment,  fine  and  fair, 

Was  his;  he  saw  his  comrade's  eyes 

With  envy  rest  upon  his  prize; 

Laughed  to  himself,  and,  clear  and  strong 

Trolled  'neath  the  cross  a  drinking  song. 

O  Roman  soldier!  who  are  we, 
Who  shudder  when  we  think  of  thee! 
We  are  the  ones  to-day,  you,  /, 
Who  help  the  Lord  to  crucify! 
"He  asks  too  much,"  we  mutely  say; 
Because  that  once  His  life  He  gave, 
Must  we  yield  all  which  now  we  crave? 
Waste  on  dull  souls  our  thought  all  day, 
And  give,  give,  give  our  lives  away? 
We  cannot,  will  not.    Turn,  O  Christ! 


Days  We  Remember 


Turn  from  us  Thy  reproachful  eyes! 
And  yet — stay!  turn  not\  losing  Thee, 
What  hope,  what  help  for  us  would  be? 
We  need  Thee  whom  we  would  not  serve; 
In  Thee  our  only  refuge  lies — 
O  help  us!  help  us!  Love  unpriced! 
To  count  all  gain  without  Thee  loss, 
And  yield  our  hearts,  without  reserve, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  Thy  cross! 


Days  We  Remember 


EASTER 

"Mary!" 

In  the  gray  dusk  of  morn  she  stands, 
The  spikenard  fragrant  in  her  hands; 
She  sees  a  dim  form  through  the  mists, 
A  foot-fall  coming  near  she  lists. 
No  strange,  sweet  thrill  of  holy  fear 
Foretells  her  heart  of  faith's  reward: 
"He  comes,  the  gardener,"  she  says; 
And  lo,  it  is  the  Lord! 

"Mary!" 

We  stand  amid  the  mists  like  thee! 
The  close  at  hand  we  cannot  see; 
Not  knowing  what  they  bring,  we  greet 
Each  day,  and  every  soul,  we  meet; 
But  what  seems  sorrow's  darkest  hour 
May  bring  us  faith's  reward, 
And  when  we  say  *'the  gardener," 
Behold,  it  is  the  Lord! 


21 


THE  KING'S  LILIES 

Beyond  the  day,  beyond  the  night, 
Soft  shining  in  the  crystal  light, 
Unnumbered  flowers  unfolding  white — 

The  garden  lilies  of  the  King! 

In  gentler  winds  than  those  of  spring, 

Low-voiced  and  sweet  their  blossoms  swing. 

I  see  them  waving  in  my  dreams; 

How  near  their  mystic  whiteness  gleams, 

Their  fragrance,  floating  round  me,  seems! 

O  heavenly  garden!  can  it  be 

Thou  hast  a  space  awaiting  me, 

Where  my  blest  soul  shall  bloom  in  thee? 

Safe,  shielded  from  life's  noon-day  glare, 
Its  stormy  winds,  its  frosty  air, 
Forever  blest!  forever  fair! 


22 


Days  We  Remember 


EASTER  MORNING 

O  the  anguish  of  Mary! 

The  depth  of  despair! 
When  she  came  to  the  tomb 

And  the  Lord  was  not  there; 
As  she  desolate  stood 

With  her  balm  and  her  myrrh, 
And  his  winding  sheet  only 

Was  waiting  for  her! 

O  the  blackness  of  death! 

O  life's  utter  despair! 
Had  she  come  to  the  tomb 

And  the  Lord  had  been  there, 
Lying  wrapt  in  the  sheet 

With  the  balm  and  the  myrrh, 
And  no  risen  Redeemer 

Had  waited  for  her! 


Days  We  Remember 


MEG'S  EASTER  EGG 

To  the  lone  farm-house  on  the  hill, 

There  came  to  little  Meg 
The  loveliest  of  Easter  gifts, 

A  blue  and  golden  egg. 

"Look,  look!"  she  went  through  all  the  house 

And  called  each  one  to  see: 
"My  Easter  egg;  how  bootiful 

The  Easter  bird  will  be! 
I'll  give  it  to  Old  Speckle  Wing, 

Warm  in  her  nest  to  keep, 
And  harken,  harken,  harken,  till 

At  last  I  hear  a  peep, 
And  out  will  come  my  Easter  bird, 

All  lovely  from  its  shell; 
Will  it  be  blue  and  yellow?    O, 

I  wish  that  you  could  tell!" 

Her  mother  kissed  the  glowing  face 

Beneath  the  shining  hair: 
"No,  darling,  keep  your  pretty  gift; 

No  bird  is  hidden  there." 


24 


Days  We  Remember 


The  rosy  mouth  began  to  grieve; 

The  little  bosom  swelled; 
"'Twas  not  the  egg  I  loved,"  said  Meg; 

"It  was  the  bird  it  held!" 

O,  Easter  truth  on  childhood's  lips! 
What  to  the  soul  are  worth, 

Without  the  hope  of  life  beyond, 
The  painted  shells  of  earth! 


25 


Days  W "e  Remember 


APRIL-FOOLS 

The  April-fools!  the  April-fools! 

What  happy  folk  are  they! 
The  white  flowers  deck  the  cherry  boughs, 

And  daffodils  are  gay. 
The  bluebird  calls,  the  redbreast  sings, 

The  blackbird  pipes  all  day, 
And  they  believe — the  silly  things! — 

That  birds  and  flowers  will  stay. 
'Tis  wind  and  frost  and  scorching  skies 
That  make  the  April-fools  grow  wise! 

The  April-fools!  the  April-fools! 

What  happy  folk  are  they! 
They're  light  of  head  and  light  of  heart, 

And  dance  the  hours  away! 
Young  Love,  with  fluttering  purple  wings, 

Blithe  Hope  for  them  is  new; 
And  they  believe — the  trustful  things! — 

That  all  they  say  is  true! 
Sweet  simpletons!  but  who  would  frown 
And  shake  their  air-built  castles  down? 
For  dark  were  life,  and  full  of  sighs, 
Should  all  its  April-fools  grow  wise. 


26 


PATRIOT'S  DAY 

Not  ours,  O  Lord!  the  cause 
Of  Freedom  is  thine  own, 

And  She  Thy  messenger 
To  make  Thee  known! 

The  longing  for  her  wakes 
A  truer  thought  of  Thee; 

Thou,  Who  mad'st  man  from  dust 
And  left  him  free! 

Not  to  be  blind-fold  led 

As  Thy  strong  hand  deemed  fit, 
But  to  make  his  the  right 

By  choosing  it. 

Not  ours  are  Freedom's  wars; 

They  are  Thine  own; 
The  grim-faced  messengers 

Who  make  Thee  known! 

Their  coming  brings  more  near 
The  day  when  war  shall  cease; 

They  cleave  a  path  before 
The  Prince  of  Peace! 


Days  We  Remember 


Not  ours  the  triumph,  Lord! 

We  may  not  see 
The  glory  of  the  day 

That  is  to  be; 

But,  certain  of  its  dawn, 

We  pray,  "Thy  will  be  done!" 
For  Freedom's  victories 

And  Thine  are  one! 


28 


Days  We  Remember 


ARBOR  DAY 

Not  lightly,  but  with  reverent  thought 

This  Arbor  Day, 
I  set  my  little  sapling  elm 

Beside  the  way, 
And  think,  how  in  long  years  to  come, 

Some  passer  by 
Will  bless  its  shade,  when  fiercely  glows 

The  summer  sky, 
And,  dust  in  dust,  beneath  the  turf, 

Asleep  am  I. 

DECORATION  DAY 

Loud,  ringing  strains  of  victory, 

Low  dirges,  soft  and  tender, 
Fair  wreaths,  where  Spring's  last  violets  meet 

The  rose's  opening  splendor; 
So  proud!  so  sad!  what  is  it,  say? 
A  funeral  or  a  festal  day? 

A  funeral,  for  remembered  love 

Still  makes  the  true  heart  falter; 
A  festival,  for  Valor's  grave 

Is  ever  Freedom's  altar; 
And  Glory's  flower  its  proudest  bloom 
Shows  only  on  a  soldier's  tomb. 


Days  We  Remember 


A  SOLDIERS'  GRAVE 

Glad  robins  singing  in  the  boughs, 

Low  murmur  of  the  bees, 
A  hill-side  burying-ground  closed  round 

With  wilding  apple-trees; 
The  snowy  flowers  drift  softly  down 

Upon  the  quiet  graves, 
And  in  the  south  wind  over  one, 

A  small  flag  gently  waves. 

Those  floating  colors  make  for  me 

That  grassy  mound  a  shrine. 
What  though  the  one  who  sleeps  beneath 

Knew  naught  of  me  or  mine? 
Yet  that  brave  life,  quenched  long  ago, 

Seems  of  my  own  a  part; 
For  he  who  dies  for  freedom,  lives 

In  every  freeman's  heart. 


3° 


A  SOLDIER'S  WREATH 

'Twas  one  Memorial  Day,  and  we  were  bringing 

Our  blossoms  on  the  soldiers'  graves  to  lay, 
Our  garden  treasures,  and  the  wild  flowers  spring 
ing 

In  the  chill  sunshine  of  our  Northern  May. 
Gayly  the  village  maidens  wove  them,  trying, 

Each  one,  her  garland  should  the  fairest  be; 
A  coronal  of  crimson  roses  lying 

On  the  pure  snow-wreath  of  the  cornel-tree; 
White  lilacs,  like  the  soft  wool  fillets  seeming 

Worn  by  Apollo's  priests;  and  purple  knots 
Of  violets  'mid  silver  lilies  gleaming; 

And  turquoise  rings  of  blue  forget-me-nots. 
How  strangely  looked,  amid  this  dainty  sweetness, 

One   clumsy  wreath  which  skilless  hands   had 

tied, 
Of  apple-bloom  with  all  its  rosy  fleetness, 

And  cowslips  pining  for  the  brooklet's  side! 
Yet,    for  the   sacred   thought  those  flowers  were 
keeping, 

That  garland  seemed  to  me  the  fairest  one: 
I  knew  a  soldier's  widow  twined  it,  weeping, 

To  deck  the  grave  where  slept  her  soldier  son. 


Days  We  Remember 


THE  VETERAN 

Another  and  another  wreath — 

We  deck  new  graves  each  spring, 
And  smaller  grows  the  gray-haired  band 

Whose  hands  the  garlands  bring. 
Grave  veterans,  we  follow  slow 

The  dull  beat  of  the  drum; 
There's  one  brief  march  before  us  now, 

And,  Comrades!  we  shall  come 
One  sleep  to  share,  and  o'er  each  grave 
The  starry  flag  we  loved  shall  wave! 

We  mourn  you  not!     The  days  seem  far 

Since  side  by  side  we  fought, 
And  onward  to  the  meeting-place 

The  way  is  now  so  short! 
Not  many  May-times  shall  we  hear 

The  summons  of  the  drum; 
We  wait,  with  unforgetting  hearts, 

Till,  Comrades!  ive  shall  come 
One  sleep  to  share,  while  o'er  each  grave, 
Thank  God!  the  starry  flag  shall  wave! 


Days  We  Remember 


OUR  DEAD 

Not  alone  the  fairest  garlands  of  the  May; 
Bring  a  nobler  tribute  for  our  dead  to-day. 

Bravery  asks  honor  only  of  the  brave. 
What  avails  if  cowards  deck  a  hero's  grave? 

Greet  this  sacred  morning  with  the  solemn  vow, 
"Freedom's  fallen  vanguard!       fficwill  serve  her 
now! 

"Sleep  in  peace,  O  martyrs!  faithful  to  the  last; 
We  will  make  our  present  worthy  si  your  past!" 


33 


Days  We  Remember 


THE  COMRADE'S  GRAVE 

Comrade! 

You  who  onee  marched  by  my  side, 
Brave  with  the  daring  of  boyhood, 

Fearless,  whatever  defied, 
Firm,  with  your  face  to  the  foeman, 

Early  you  fell  in  the  strife; — 
/know  a  wearier  struggle, 

Harder  the  battle  of  Life! 

Comrade! 

Sweet  are  the  wreaths  on  your  grave; 
Freedom  forgets  not  her  fallen, — 

Love  guards  the  sleep  of  the  brave; 
Long  are  the  years  now  between  us, — 

Victor  you  fell  in  the  strife; 
7  know  the  heart  of  the  vanquished, — 

Hard  is  the  battle  of  Life! 


34 


Days  We  Remember 


"MORE  THAN  30  YEARS  AGO" 

With  tears  upon  a  soldier's  grave 

I  bend  a  wreath  to  lay. 

And  little  David,  standing  by, 

Asks  wonderingly,  "What  makes  you  cry? 

I  love  to  hear  the  music  play: 

I'm  glad  it  is  Memorial  Day; 

Why  should  you  cry?  the  war,  you  know, 

Was  very,  very,  long  ago." 

"Not  very  long,"  I  say;  but  he, 
Reprovingly,  looks  up  at  me: 
"Yes,  very  long;  you  said,  you  know, 
'Twas  more  than  thirty  years  ago!" 

The  little  sunlit  face  before 

My  misty  eyes  grows  dim; 

What  is  but  yesterday  to  me 

Seems  like  an  age  to  him; 

Fresh  in  my  heart  the  parting  pang, 

I  hear  the  last  good  by, 

As  my  brave  brother  turns  away 

On  War's  red  field  to  die. 


But  all  I  say  is,  "Davy  dear, 
Perhaps  you'll  sometime  know 
It  takes  not  very  long  for  more 
Than  thirty  years  to  go." 


35 


Days  PPe  Remember 


MAY  DAY 

The  snow  was  on  the  leaves  I  brushed 

With  childish  haste  away, 
And  underneath  them,  fresh  and  fair, 

The  year's  first  May-flower  lay; 
One,  sweet,  half-bloom,  that  smiled  between 
Three  buds,  whose  pink  had  cleft  the  green; 
The  first!  the  first! 

By  melting  snows  and  March  winds  nurst! 
O,  proudly  as  a  little  Queen, 

I  down  the  hill-side  went! 
I  envied  no  one  anywhere, 

I  was  so  well  content, 
Since  home  in  triumph  I  could  bring 
The  earliest  May-flower  of  the  Spring! 


Days  We  Remember 


WAKING 

"Peep!  peep!  peep!  peep!" 

Hark!  hark!  'tis  the  call  of  the  Frogs. 
The  Cowslip  buds  in  the  meadow  marsh; 

The  Rushes  start  in  the  bogs. 
Come,  Violet,  come  in  your  purple  hood! 
Come,  wild  Wake-Robin,  and  light  the  wood! 
Shine,  Star-Flower,  shine  in  your  emerald  wheel! 
Come,  small  white  plume  of  the  Solomon's-Seal! 
Bloom,  Wind-Flower,  bloom,  to  the  South  Wind  true! 
Come,  Innocence,  color  the  brook-side  blue! 
Come,  yellow  bell  of  the  Adder's-Tongue, 
Again  o'er  thy  spotted  leaves  be  hung! 
Croak,  Bull-Frogs,  croak, 
Peep,  little  Frogs,  peep, 
Till  the  very  last  blossom 
Wakes  out  of  its  sleep! 


37 


Days  We  Remember 


MY  CHILDHOOD'S  SUNDAY 

My  great-great-great-great-grandfather, 

Whose  heart  through  mine  is  beating, 
Believed — good  Puritan!— 'twas  sin 

Of  sins  to  stay  from  meeting. 
On  each  Lord's  Day  they  gathered  twice, 

A  patient  congregation, 
And  heard  two  long  discourses  through 

As  food  for  meditation. 
But  oh,  what  rest  for  Saturday, 

How  brisk  a  start  from  Monday 
Those  grave  old  Pilgrim  fathers  had, 

With  their  old-fashioned  Sunday! 

"A  vanished  day,"  you  say;  and  yet 

Fond  memory's  tears  bedew  it, 
For  in  my  old  New  England  home, 

A  child,  how  well  I  knew  it! 
It  colored  all  my  early  thoughts, 

My  life  was  built  upon  it; 
I  always  said  "my  Sunday  gown," 

"My  go-to-meeting  bonnet." 
Mere  common,  bustling  workadays 

Were  Saturday  and  Monday; 
But  oh,  my  very  best  belonged 

To  that  old-fashioned  Sunday, 


Days  We  Remember 


Once  more  the  great  green,  box-like  pew, 

Its  high  wall  'round  me  closes; 
I  sit,  a  nosegay  on  my  breast — 

How  sweet  the  damask  roses! 
I  softly  wave  my  painted  fan, 

And,  by  my  side,  my  mother     ai 
Meets  mine  with  look,  half  smile,  h    f  prayer, 

More  sweet  than  any  other. 
I  loved  the  strolls  of  Saturday, 

The  merry  romps  of  Monday; 
But  oh,  I  felt  the  holy  charm 

Of  that  old-fashioned  Sunday. 

They  haunt  me  still,  the  many  texts 

And  hymns  I  then  committed, 
And  never  knew  in  learning  them 

That  I  was  to  be  pitied. 
Time  changes  all;  yet  we  would  trust 

Through  change  the  world  grows  better; 
But  oh,  to  the  remembered  past 

How  much  I  feel  a  debtor! 
And  oh,  how  hopeless  Saturday, 

And  wearisome  were  Monday, 
Without  the  quiet  rest  between 

Of  my  old-fashioned  Sunday! 


39 


Days  We  Remember 


A  BIRTHDAY  MORN 

It  was  upon  my  birthday  morn, 
The  world  with  me  went  wrong, 

And,  tossed  by  fear,  the  night  had  seemed, 
How  wearisome  and  long! 

When  sweet,  as  when  to  her  I  turned 

A  little  restless  child, 
My  mother  stood  beside  my  bed, 

And  looked  on  me  and  smiled. 

And  brightness  that  was  not  of  earth 

Shone  round  me  all  the  day; 
The  mansions  of  the  blest  appeared 

How  short  a  space  away! 

"  'Twas  but  a  dream,"  you  say.     In  dreams 

The  dear  Lord  spoke  of  old; 
Has  He  forgotten  to  draw  near? 

Has  Heaven's  heart  grown  cold? 

Oh  no!     His  messenger  of  love, 

To  me,  her  weary  child, 
My  mother,  on  my  birthday  morn, 

Stood  by  my  bed  and  smiled! 


40 


Days  We  Remember 


A  BIRTHDAY 

This  is  your  birthday.     On  the  calendars 
Of  those  who  know  you  it  is  marked  with  gold, 
As  both  a  holy  and  a  holiday. 
You  make  us  happy,  and  you  make  us  good, 
By  simply  being  with  you.     You  bestow, 
And  think  you  are  receiving;  like  a  rose 
That  marvels  at  the  fragrance  of  the  breeze. 
We  are  most  glad,  since  you  were  sent  to  earth, 
It  was  while  we  are  here;    not  hastened  down 
To  shine  amidst  the  shadows  of  the  past, 
Nor  kept  to  grace  some  joyful,  future  day. 
But  come  to  share  our  present  as  ie  is, 
And  leave  tomorrow  better  for  your  stay. 


Days  We  Remember 


A  JUNE  WEDDING 

The  barberry  bush,  a  shower  of  gold, 

Through  silver  dews  is  glittering; 

The  buttercups  the  meadows  hold, 

A  shining  host;  and  twittering, 

And  fluttering, 

Upon  the  yellow-blossomed  bough, 

A  little  bridegroom  goldfinch  now 

Is  uttering, 

As  best  he  can,  what  never  quite 

On  earth  is  uttered,  Love's  delight. 

"Sweet,  sweet!"  he  calls;  and  close  beside, 

Among  the  flowers,  his  little  bride, 

"Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet!"  makes  low  reply. 

What  though  no  wedding  guest  am  I, 

I  can  but  greet  the  little  pair, 

The  dew-drops  round  them  shedding, 

And  say  to  them,  just  as  I  would 

At  any  other  wedding, 

"May  you  be  blest  with  all  that's  best, 

Soft  airs  and  sunny  weather; 

And  when  you're  called  to  go,  may  you 

Fly  heavenward  together!" 


Days  We  Remember 


THE  FOURTH 

Dear  noisy  day,  with  fife  and  drum, 

And  guns,  and  bells,  and  horns  you  come! 

But,  welcome  still,  you  bring  once  more 

Brave  memories  of  the  days  of  yore, 

When  Freedom  the  first,  rapturous  thrill 

Of  broken  thraldom  knew, 

And  sang  the  thirteen  morning  stars 

Together  in  the  blue! 

Dear  day!     Times  change  and  hearts  grow  old; 

Bring  back  the  patriot  fire  of  old! 

THE  FIRE-CRACKER 

The  Fire-Cracker  said,  "I  am  really  not 

A  Cracker  at  all,  but  a  Patriot, 

And  for  Freedom's  sake  I  am  ready  to  die, 

When  my  Country  calls  on  the  Fourth  of  July!" 


43 


Days  We  Remember 


THE  SUMMER  OUTING 

Where  shall  we  pitch  our  gypsy  tent, 
Our  few  brief  days  by  pleasure  lent? 
Among  the  hills,  beside  the  sea, 
Beneath  some  hill-side  pasture  tree, 
Or  'mid  the  fields  with  daisies  fair? 
Oh,  choose  at  will;  it  matters  not; 
The  loveliest  spot 
In  summer  days  is — everywhere. 

Dark  pines  in  rifted  ledges  gray, 
Wild  roses  wet  with  salt  sea  spray, 
Pink  sunsets  in  the  mirroring  lake, 
The  wild  brook  laughing  in  the  brake, 
The  gray  gull's  flight,  the  clear-voiced  thrush, 
Sweet  singing  in  the  greenwood's  hush — 
Which  joy  to  snatch,  what  bliss  to  lose. 
When  each  seems  fairest,  who  can  choose? 

Then  gypsy-tenting  forth  we'll  fare; 
But  whither  go  it  matters  not; 
The  loveliest  spot 
In  summer  days  waits — everywhere. 


44 


Days  We  Remember 


OLD  HOME  WEEK 

Thrice  fair  the  dear  old  State  we  love 

Among  her  green  hills  stands, 
And,  like  a  waiting  mother,  smiles 

And  reaches  out  her  hands. 
"Come  back,  my  wanderers!"  she  calls: 

"Come  back!  we  miss  you  yet; 
New  Hampshire  hearts  have  never  learned 

Their  absent  to  forget! 
Come  back  and  break  the  bread  of  love 

And  hear  fond  memory  speak, 
And  give  to  those  who  knew  you  first 

An  Old  Home  Week! 

"Come  back  and  let  us  share  with  you 

Your  triumphs  or  your  tears; 
Come  back  and  see  what  toil  has  won 

For  us  these  busy  years. 
Let  the  closed  by-roads,  grass  o'ergrown 

Again  your  footsteps  know; 
By  the  deserted  farmhouse  still 

Your  mother's  roses  grow. 
Strew  flowers  on  long-forgotten  graves, 

List  while  hushed  voices  speak, 
And  make  a  sacrament  of  love 

Our  Old  Home  Week." 


45 


Days  We  Remember 


LABOR  DAY 

O  Christ!  the  King  of  Glory, 

To  whom  arch-angels  bow, 
Does  often  come  to  Thee  the  thought 

Of  Joseph's  work-shop  now? 
Where,  making  plows  and  ox-yokes, 

All  day  the  good  man  wrought, 
And  reverently  his  simple  craft 

The  child  beside  him  taught? 
Thy  boyish  hands  were  hard  with  toil, 

Thy  brow  was  moist  with  sweat — 
Thou  dost  remember,  Lord!  Thy  heart 

Is  with  Earth's  toilers  yet. 

Beyond  the  jeweled,  jasper  wall, 

Dost  Thou  not  sometimes  see 
The  fishing  boats  that  used  to  toss 

On  stormy  Galilee? 
The  wild  winds  and  the  maddened  waves 

That  to  each  other  cried, 
The  black  clouds  hurrying,  the  last 

Faint  gleam  of  light  to  hide? 
The  hungry  eyes,  when  morning  broke, 

Bent  o'er  the  empty  net — 
Thou  dost  remember,  Lord!  Thy  heart 

Is  with  earth's  toilers  yet! 


46 


Days  We  Remember 


It  is  the  heavy  laden  ones 

Thou  biddest  come  to  Thee! 
To  those  who  know  Care's  heavy  load 

Love's  burden  light  will  be! 
We  need  not  falteringly  begin 

The  task  that  Thou  hast  set— 
Thy  help  is  sure,  O  Lord!  thy  heart 

Is  with  Earth's  toilers  yet! 


47 


Days  We  Remember 


FAIR  DAY 

Old  Farmer  Boggs,  of  Boggy  Brook, 

Went  to  the  County  Fair, 
And  with  his  wife,  he  strolled  around 

To  see  the  wonders  there. 
"That  horse,"  he  said,  "Grey  Eagle  Wing, 

Will  take  the  highest  prize; 
But  our  old  Dobbin  looks  as  well 

And  better  to  my  eyes. 
He  is,  I  know,  what  folks  call  slow — 
It's  far  the  safest  way  to  go; 
Some  men,  perhaps,  might  think  it  strange, 
I  really  should  not  like  to  change. 
"And  those  fat  oxen — Buck  and  Bright 

Don't  have  so  large  a  girth, 
No,  match  like  them,  just  to  a  hair, 

But  I  know  what  they're  worth. 
They're  good  to  plough,  and  good  to  draw, 
You  stronger  pullers  never  saw, 
And  always  mind  my  'gee,  and  haw.' 
Some  folks,  perhaps,  might  think  it  strange, 
I  really  shouldn't  want  to  change." 
"That  Devon  heifer  cost,  I  heard, 

A  thousand  dollars;  now," 
Said  Mrs.  Boggs,  "my  Crumple  Horn 

Is  just  as  good  a  cow; 


Days  We  Remember 


Her  milk,  I'm  sure's  the  very  best, 

Her  butter  is  the  yellowest; 

Some  folks,  perhaps,  might  think  it  strange, 

I  really  shouldn't  want  to  change. 

"Those  premium  hogs" — said  Mrs.  Boggs, 

"My  little  Cheshire  pig 
Is  better  than  the  best  of  them, 

Although  he's  not  so  big. 
And  that  young  Jersey  is  not  half 
So  pretty  as  old  Brindle's  calf; 
Nor  is  there  in  the  poultry  pen, 
As  Speckled  Wings  so  good  a  hen!" 
As  Farmer  Boggs  to  Boggy  Brook 

Rode  homeward  from  the  Fair, 
He  said,  "I  wish  my  animals 

Had  all  of  them  been  there; 
And  if  the  judges  had  been  wise 

I  might  have  taken  every  prize!" 


49 


Days  We  Remember 


ELECTION 

Said  Mrs.  Brown,  "I  shall  be  glad 
If  we  live  through  Election — 

These  parties  pulling,  everyone 
A  different  direction; 

What  is  the  use?     I  dread  to  be 

With  men-folks  when  they  disagree! 

They  march  about  and  raise  their  flags 
Their  common  work  half  doin', 

And  each  one  says  the  other  side 
Will  bring  us  straight  to  ruin! 

They  quarrel  so!     I  hate  to  be 

With  men-folks  when  they  disagree! 

But  when  the  voting  time  is  past 
I  hope  their  strife  they'll  settle, 

Nor  black  the  kettle  call  the  pot, 
Nor  black  the  pot  the  kettle! 

For  O,  how  peaceful  life  would  be 

If  everybody  could  agree! 


Days  We  Remember 


THANKSGIVING 

I  counted  up  my  little  store. 

Why  was  to  others  given  more? 

Why  were  their  lips  with  honey  fed, 

While  mine  had  Labor's  hard-earned  bread? 

A  weary,  hopeless  task  seemed  living. 

I  could  not  bring  to  God  thanksgiving. 

There  came  a  poor  man  to  my  door; 
I  shared  with  him  my  scanty  store. 
When,  lo!  my  sense  of  want  had  flown, 
And  rarest  riches  were  my  own! 
So  sweet  is  Love's  divided  bread, 
I  seemed  with  Heaven's  own  manna  fed. 
What  blessed  joy  there  was  in  living! 
I  brought  to  God  my  glad  thanksgiving. 


S1 


Days  We  Remember 


THANKSGIVING 

Bright   glows  my  neighbor's  house,    every   room 

lighted; 

Round  his  wide  hearth  again,  once  more  united, 
All  the  glad  love  of  old  in  each  heart  living, 
Home  have  his  dear  ones  come,  home  to  Thanks 
giving. 

I,  in  my  silent  room,  sit,  O  how  lonely! 
Grave  is  my  company,  memories  only! 
Mute  is  the  music  of  voices  once  dearest, 
Fled,    fled   beyond    my  thought,    those    I     held 
nearest. 

Nay,  they  but  wait  for  me  where  now  they  gather, 
Safe  in  the  beautiful  house  of  our  Father! 
Soon,  all  the  love  of  old  in  each  heart  living, 
Soon  shall  I  go  to  them,  home  to  Thanksgiving! 


Days  We  Remember 


A  GOOD  THANKSGIVING 

Said    Old  Gentleman  Gay,  "On  a   Thanksgiving 

Day, 
If   you  want  a  good  time,  then  give    something 

away; 

So  he  sent  a  fat  turkey  to  Shoemaker  Price. 
And  the  Shoemaker  said,  "What  a  big  bird!  how 

nice! 
And,    since  such  a  good  dinner's  before    me,    I 

ought 
To    give  poor  Widow  Lee  the  small    chicken    I 

bought." 
"This    fine   chicken,    O   see!"   said   the    pleased 

Widow  Lee, 
"And  the  kindness  that  sent  it,  how  precious  to 

me! 

I  would  like  to  make  someone  as  happy  as  I — 
I'll  give  Washwoman  Biddy  my  big  pumpkin  pie." 
"And  O,  sure!"  Biddy  said,  "  'tis  the  queen  of  all 

pies! 

Just  to  look  at  its  yellow  face  gladdens  my  eyes! 
Now  it's  my  turn,  I  think;  and  a  sweet  ginger- 
cake 

For  the  motherless  Finigan  Children  I'll  bake." 
"A  sweet-cake,  all  our  own!     'Tis  too  good  to  be 

true!" 


S3 


Days  We  Remember 


Said   the   Finigan   Children,    Rose,    Denny,   and 

Hugh; 

"It  smells  sweet   of  spice,  and  we'll  carry  a   slice 
To  poor  little  Lame  Jake — who  has  nothing  that's 

nice." 
"O,    I    thank   you,    and    thank   you!"    said   little 

Lame  Jake; 

"O  what  bootiful,  bootiful,  bootiful  cake! 
And    O,   such    a  big   slice!    I    will   save    all   the 

crumbs, 
And   will  give    'em  to  each    little    Sparrow   that 

comes!" 
And    the  Sparrows,   they   twittered,    as  if    they 

would  say, 
Like    Old   Gentleman  Gay,  "On   a   Thanksgiving 

Day, 
If  you   want  a  good  time,   then   give    something 

away!" 


54 


Days  We  Remember 


THE  ANGELS'  SONG 

They  sang,  as  sang  the  morning  stars, 
The  Angels  in  the  glowing  sky. 
They  sang,  and  why? 
Because  they  saw  a  mother  lay 
Her  first-born  on  the  manger  hay 
Of  an  inn  stable,  while  with  her, 
The  husband,  a  Jew  carpenter, 
Kept  tender  watch,  was  that  a  thing 
To  make  the  Hosts  of  Heaven  sing? 

They  sang,  and  why?     If  they  could  see 

The  life  that  for  that  child  would  be, 

The  nails  that  would  pierce  through  those  sweet 

Soft  hands,  and  little  rosy  feet, 

The  sapling  nursed  by  sun  and  dew, 

That,  waiting  in  the  woodland,  grew 

To  make  the  cross  where  he  would  die 

With  one  long,  agonizing  cry, 

Mocked  by  a  thorn-wreath  as  a  king, 

How  could  they — O,  how  could  they  sing? 


55 


Days  We  Remember 


But  yet,  no  sorrow  in  their  song, 

A  radiant  and  rapturous  throng, 

They  came,  and,  round  them,  all  the  night 

Glowed  with  a  miracle  of  light! — 

They  sang — was  not  all  Heaven  blest 

To  share  with  sorrowing  Earth  her  best? 

Glad  that  the  great  God  throned  above 

Made  for  Himself  His  law  of  Love, 

Bent  pitying  down,  and,  through  His  Son, 

Became  with  Earth's  sad  children  one! 

God  loved  and  gave;  God  loves  and  gives; 

In  loving  hearts  His  spirit  lives; 

And  those  who  shed  Hope's  light  among 

Earth's  shades,  know  why  the  A.ngels  sung. 


Days  We  Remember 


CHRISTMAS 

The  inn  was  full  at  Bethlehem; 

A  busy  crowd  were  there; 
And  some  were  rich,  and  some  were  wise, 

And  some  were  young  and  fair; 
But  who  or  what  they  were,  to-day 

There  is  not  one  to  care. 
Within  the  cattle's  manger 
There  lay  a  baby  stranger, 
Soft  nestled,    like   a  snow-white  dove,  among  the 

scented  hay; 

And  lo!  through  Him  was  given 
One  song  to  Earth  and  Heaven, 
The  song  two  worlds  together  sing  upon  a  Christ 
mas  day: 

"Glory  to  God!  Good  will  to  men!" 
O  listen!  Wake  it  once  again! 
"Peace  upon  Earth!     Good  will  to  men!" 

They  sing  it,  those  who  sang  it  first, 

The  angels  strong  and  high; 
They  sing,  in  shining  white,  the  saints, 

Who  died  long  years  gone  by, 
And  all  the  fluttering  cherub  throng, 

The  children  of  the  sky; 
They  sing,  the  patient,  waiting  souls 

Who  still  Faith's  conflicts  know; 


57 


Days  We  Remember 


They  sing,  Life's  happy  innocents, 

Their  faces  all  aglow; 
One  melody  fills  Heaven  above 
And  flows  from  Earth  below, 
The  song  of  that  sweet  stranger, 
Who,  in  the  cattle's  manger 
Lay,  nineteen    hundred   years   ago,   among    the 

scented  hay! 

All  sin  and  wrong  forgiven, 
Earth  seems  close  kin  of  Heaven, 
And  sweet  two  worlds  together  sing  upon  a  Christ 
mas  day! 


Days  We  Remember 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

Green  in  the  drifted  snow  I  see 
One  fir,  my  only  Christmas-tree, 
And  in  it,  by  the  wind  unstirred, 
There  sits  one  little  Christmas  bird. 
What  does  he  care  for  cold  or  storm? 
Ten  thousand  feathers  keep  him  warm, 
And  underneath  his  soft,  gray  vest 
A  Christmas  heart  beats  in  his  breast, 
While  low  and  clear  he  pipes  in  glee 
His  Christmas  carol:  "Chick-a-dee! 
Chick-a-dee,  dee,  dee,  dee,  dee!" 

It  makes  me  happy  just  to  hear 
His  song,  (its  meaning  is  so  clear): 
"The  winds  may  blow,  the  snows  may  fall; 
The  Lord  of  Christmas  rules  o'er  all; 
He  loveth  you,  He  loveth  me, 
Be  glad  and  fear  not.     Chick-a-dee! 
Chick-a-dee,  dee,  dee,  dee,  dee! 
'Tis  Merry  Christmas!  Chick-a-deel" 


59 


Days  We  Remember 


THE  OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW 

The  north  winds  blow  o'er  drifts  of  snow, 
Out  in  the  cold  who  goes  from  here? 
'iGood-by!  good-by,"  loud  voices  cry: 
"Good-by!"  returns  the  brave,  old  year. 
But,  looking  back,  what  word  leaves  he? 
"Oh,  you  must  all  good  children  be!" 

A  knock,  a  knock!  'tis  twelve  o'clock! 
This  time  of  night,  pray,  who  comes  here? 
Oh,  now  I  see,  'tis  he!  'tis  he! 
All  people  know  the  glad  New  Year! 
What  has  he  brought?  and  what  says  he? 
"Oh,  you  must  all  good  children  be!" 


60 


Mr.     Badger's    New    List 

GENERAL   LITERATURE 

A  BUNCH  OF  ROPE  YARNS,  by  Stanton  H.   King,  I2mo.,  $1.25 

POETRY 

THE  DANCERS,  by  Edith  M.    Thomas,  12  mo.,   ...  .50 

APOLLO  AND  KEATS,  by  Clifford  Lanier,  12  mo.,  ...  .50 

THE  SONG  AT  MIDNIGHT,  by  Mary  M.  Adams,  12   mo.,  .50 

CUPID  is  KING,  by  Roy  Farrell  Greene,  12  mo.,        .      .  .25 

DAYS  WE  REMEMBER,  by  Marian  Douglas, 12  mo.,  .  .25 

ENGLISH  LYRICS  OF  A  FINNISH   HARP,  by  H.  M.  Donner,  .25 

THE  WATCHERS  OF  THE  HEARTH,  by  Benjamin  Sledd,   .  .25 

A  REED  BY  THE  RIVER,  by  Virginia  Woodward  Cloud,  .  .00 

TANGLED   IN   STARS,    by   Etheltvyn  Wethtrald,  12   mo.,  .00 

THOUGHTS  ADRIFT,  by  Hattie  Homer  Louthan,    12  mo.,  .00 

THE  AIR  VOYAGER,  by  William  E.  Ingersoll,  16  mo.,   .  0.75 

THE  GREAT  PROCESSION,  by  Harriet  Prescott    Spojford,  0.50 

PLAYS 

MAXIMILIAN,  by  Edgar  Lee  Masters,    12  mo.,   .      .      .  1.50 

MOSES,  by    Charles  Ho  fey  Brown,  8  vo.,         .      .      .      .  1.25 

FICTION 

THE  CULT  OF  THE  PURPLE  ROSE,  A   Phase  of  Harvard 

Life,  by    Shirley  Ever  ton    Johnson,     12    mo.,  !-*5 

THE  LOST  BRIGADE,  by   Charles  W,   Hall,  8  vo.,     .      .  1.25 

A  ROMANCE  OF  WOLF  HOLLOW,  by  Anna   Wolfram,  .      .  I.OQ 

CARAMBA,  An  Extravagoose,  410.,         I.OQ 

CARITA,  by  Louis  Pendleton,  12  mo., °-7$ 

DON  Luis' s  WIFE,  by  Lillian  Hinman  Shuey,  12  mo.,   .  0.7^ 

THREADS  OF  LIFE,  by  Clara  Sherwood  Rollins,  16  mo.,    .  o,5o 

Richard  G.  Badger,  The  Gorbam  Press,  Boston 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-50w-9,'60(B361064)444 


A    001  248  651    o 


PS 

3535 

R556d 


